I have learned that if you must leave a place that you have lived in and loved and where all your yearsteryears are buried deep, leave it any way except a slow way, leave it the fastest way you can. Never turn back and never believe that an hour you remember is a better hour because it is dead. Passed years seem safe ones, vanquished ones, while the future lives in a cloud, formidable from a distance. — Beryl Markham

Thursday, July 26, 2012 (DAY 144)Last night, I had a dream of the entirety of a path that my life could have been, a part of my life that I have now had to let go. Awaking confused and a bit heartbroken from what I knew I had to do, I know that there is a reason for doing this now rather than later, and yet, it still does not make it any easier letting this girl disappear from my life, my thoughts, in order to move forward. The connection I shared with this girl–this young woman–I somehow grew to love over a short period of time before leaving on this incredible journey has always been a part of my daily thoughts. I knew from the first time we shared with one another painful parts of our lives that we have never spoken of so freely, becoming vulnerable to one another beyond words, that there was a connection that went deeper than just a surface friendship. The almost daily adventurous trips to Starbucks where I saw the flicker of a smile for the first time from her that will be forever ingrained in my memory as she stood across the room from me and our eyes met through a small crowd, is just one of the thousands of small details I did not get a chance to share with her before I left. Singing and dancing to the tune of Vanessa Carlton’s A Thousand Miles, which ironically became “our song” over helplessly being forced to watch the cinematic genius of White Chicks that played as we sat confined, unable to move while at a plasma donation facility in Aurora, Colorado on a cold winter morning, I cannot help but smile whenever I hear that song. The countless lunches we shared, one of which that went to the degree that only her and I will share and all of the various informal types of communication that when the notification alert made me aware of her secret messages, it always gave me another reason to smile. The cheesy head bopping, singing to the top of our lungs, this, this is the person she should could so easily bring out of me daily, and for that I cannot thank her enough for her strength, for her friendship, for her ability to know me enough that she never asked me to stay, but could see how important this journey was for me in order to live out that which I continue to seek out with every day that I am living life to the fullest. You will always have a place in my heart. Shmurnt murnt.

Still carrying around the sadness of the previous nights dream, I feel an uncanny sense of the last strong connection to back home severed, and after a long awaited period I am given confirmation and permission to begin volunteering next week with the Nicaragua Children’s Foundation at the local special needs school. It is high noon and Marc and I are walking down the hill towards the center of town. Cars and trucks race past us on the single lane road as we attempt to cling to the nonexistent sidewalk. The heat and the humidity are beginning to become unbearable as we are both covered in sweat in search of a meal, famished and most certainly dehydrated, we make it back to the hostel with appreciative feelings of accomplishing the morning’s task. Melting in the heat, we decide to indulge in the most popular amenity The Surfing Donkey has to offer, the glorious pool. Standing on the edge, overlooking Marc, Alix, and Stephen who have already made it into the refreshing water. I muster up my loud and authoritative voice, “ladies and gentlemen, can I please have your attention. I've just been handed an urgent and horrifying news story. I need all of you, to stop what you're doing and listen…Cannonball!" Water is splashing out over the edges and onto the broken pieces of concrete that surround the pool, as we feel as though we are all twelve years old again, taking turns and simultaneously performing cannonballs into the water. Our immature fun of an adolescent behavior has been a great distraction from the girl that has now been let go. In spite of taking this very difficult step in order to move forward, I still have faith as I always have, that if specific people are meant to return to your life in ways that are stronger than even we can acknowledge, than, that is what I can hope for, but I cannot let it be the strong underlying notion that can ultimately become a consuming thought.

We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit. – Aristotle

Friday, May 25, 2012 (DAYS 82 – 85)San Pedro La Laguna is still without power, and since the morning Spanish lesson has been cancelled I’ve decided to spend the morning reading at the pool at Zoolas with my new book. Three and a half hours later and I’ve finally completed page number four of Green Eggs and Ham, don’t act like you’re not impressed. Just after 11am and the surge of electricity returns to Lago de Atitlán and within minutes of the restoration I am within distance of the Wi-fi. Now that technology and communication has been reestablished, the first message I see, is, of course, from one of the dual partners in crime that I met on Utila, Krista shut the front door Braun. Her message was rather surprising and shocking to me, as she professed her undying love for me in what can only be described as disturbing color paintings and some sort of morbid puppet show that was acted out with empty bottles of Gallo and frijoles. Needless to say, I have accepted her self-invitation to come visit me in San Pedro for the weekend with Lexi, because secretly I know that she wishes to upgrade her condiments by giving up gravy for ketchup with her fries. This, however, doesn’t change anything between us as I continue to judge her directly to her face as well as behind her back with a black magic marker in the caballeros baño. You can thank me later Krista.

Saturday afternoon, I’m anxiously waiting for the girls to arrive San Pedro La Laguna from Antigua as I sit in the television/computer room of Little Israel. Finding it unsuccessful in my search for a book that is not in Hebrew, I give up in my quest and just after 1:30pm I decide to peek outside the doorway after hearing some new arrivals to Zoolas, and, just like my life, perfect timing indeed. Upon my first encounter with Lexi, I’m convinced that she’s already mean mugging and I cannot help but go on the offensive by preparing a blue plate special of fisticus if that’s where she wants to take things. Thankfully, no fists are thrown because I’m pretty sure that if things went down it would get ugly and I didn’t want to have to pull out Jack Johnson and Tom O’Leary, but I keep them waiting in the shadows.

Saturday night, and I have a dilemma. I am surrounded by women and I refuse to put up the white flag. My boys back home would be ever so proud, pound it fellas. Looking around the table, I am now flanked on my right by two Aussies, Emm and Alarna, as the rain continues to come down in torrential sheets. Using my better judgment I decide to withhold a premature crop dusting as this special occasion deserves a proper Dutch oven. I know I can be quite the suave gentleman, but I don’t want to overwhelm them too early. And yes ladies, I am single. Our night continues with an enormous amount of laughter as we share in some of the horrendous travel stories that would be inappropriate even for Joe Rogan and Fear Factor. The story, however, that tops the evening comes when Emm asks me if I have been to the notorious (Pee-know Chee-oohs) in San Pedro? Immediately a confused look appears on my face as I use all of my brainpower to decipher this location. Regressing back to my investigative nature in Westminster, Colorado lying on my back in my bedroom with my private collection of Nancy Drew novels, I dig deep to solve the mystery at hand. After a few seconds of deeper thoughts that would embarrass even Jack Handy, I ask for the name once again, (Pee-know Chee-oohs). Putting the equation together just like two plus two is four, I ask her if she means Pinnochio's? This revelation erupts in to laughter that has everyone crying and rolling on the floor. Poor Emm can’t believe it, and even as she is laughing hysterically, she has now immortalized herself in the blog that is slowly growing an audience worldwide, prestige...worldwide.

Sunday brings gloomy grey clouds with a daring robbery after the departure of Krista and Lexi. Returning back to my apartment, I realize that the inside of my pack has a tear and soon notice that a fair portion of money has been taken. Since I am on the second floor and there was no forced entry I can only assume that one of the workers has used their key to enter my place and rummage through my belongings. Feeling violated and full of shame, I calculate that I have just enough Quetzales to get me to El Salvador. First thing Monday morning, I meet Karen and tell her that even though I’ve prepaid for a final week of Spanish lessons, unfortunately I have to discontinue because of the unfortunate circumstances, and she encourages me to contact the police to investigate the situation. After a long afternoon with two police officers and the management, there’s still no resolution and I am still determined to leave San Pedro. For the past week Lindsay and Michelle have begged for me to meet them for sun and surf in El Salvador and like Santa Claus, I am about to give them what they want without sitting awkwardly on my lap.

The day before they left me in Atitlan, Lindsay and I had a day of treasure hunting in some of the local shops which is a cherished past time with my boo back home, Andrea. I still regret not buying the hat that Lindsay picked out personally, because it completed me and I was on the verge of turning on my heart light for it. Ready to throw in the towel on the rainy season of San Pedro La Laguna, I am also excited to be leaving the poo streams of this quiet town in the highlands of Guatemala. Let me explain. When the streets are continuously the toilet for horses, stray dogs, and possibly people alike, the rain tends to send gushing waterfalls of poo water down the cobblestone streets, as it washes over your exposed feet in your flippy floppies. Yes, scrubbing your feet in the shower upon returning home the highest priority when it’s raining, and so, not everything about a backpacker’s life is full or roses and sunshine, but it still beats spreadsheets.

One of the gladdest moments of human life, methinks, is the departure upon a distant journey into unknown lands. Shaking off with one mighty effort the fetters of habit, the leaden weight of routine, the cloak of many cares and the slavery of home, man feels once more happy. – Richard Burton

Monday, April 16, 2012 (DAY 43)It is 8:35am, and I am covered in sweat and dirt, holding a machete, standing on top of a pyramid of dense jungle looking out over the horizon. I am addicted to endorphins and ready to live to be one hundred years old. Giddy up. The view is incredible as the grey clouds overhead provide a canopy of shade from the heat of the sun as it holds in the cool morning air, and you can sense the temperature rising through the thick humidity. The ascent to the summit of this Guatemalan mountain, that Coloradans would consider a lovely little hill, the steep rocky terrain vaguely reminds me of rock climbing in El Dorado Canyon just outside of Boulder, minus plants that develop leaves the size of Yugos and inhabit insects the size of dinner plates. I look over my shoulder and see Armando sitting on a rock winded from the vertical climb. Growing up at an altitude of 5,280 feet (1,609 meters) I feel fortunate that I am use to quick bouts of elevation, while my sea level compradre struggles with double vision and nausea. Unsure of how to handle the situation, I ask if he has taken his Midol for the day or if he would rather share his feelings out loud. Neither. I suppose he just has a case of the Mondays.

Since today is my day off, which you wouldn’t know otherwise, I would most likely be occupying the same colorful hammock swinging in the light breeze as the sounds of the chirping birds around me and I can think of nothing better than slowly falling asleep in this environment of relaxation as I am cradled into a siesta like a baby. Like a baby.

After fifteen minutes of taking in the 360-degree view through the foliage of the various plant life overlooking the scenic landscape that you cannot help but contemplate deep thoughts like that of Jack Handy, we decide that breakfast is calling. Making the steep downward climb, I find myself using the trees that line the narrow trail to support my weight, and in the absence of trees I grab hold of jungle vines as I turn my body to simulate a repelling motion as I am close to being vertical with the trail. Even before we started the hike, at the base of the pyramid, I told Armando that I can’t help but feel as though I have been placed in the movie Predator as the surroundings are identical. Thankfully no aliens with cloaking mechanisms are hunting us and we make it safely to the level ground below.

Night falls, and with it, the commotion of abrupt sounds of guns blasting through the darkness, interrupting the calm serene environment. Conflict has arrived at the Finca, and tensions are mounting. A small band of camouflage dressed rebels are being attacked by a more dominant group that are outfitted in white uniforms, and I witness the first bit of violence on my journey. Sitting in relative safety, huddling together and holding our breath, we wait. A battle between good and evil becomes clearly evident in the scuffle. Soon there is a new sound, a swooshing unique sound of a saber–a light saber. The screen from Armando’s Macbook has all of us on the edge of our seats. Earlier in the day, for the first time in his life, Armando was watching Return of the Jedi, shameful I know. And I call this person my friend? I should reconsider since he had also not watched Anchorman until the night before. What a smelly pirate hooker! He’s not a man that discovered the wheel or built the Eiffel Tower out metal and brawn. I’m pretty sure he has a brain a third the size of us (men) and should discontinue wearing Sex Panther immediately. IMMEDIATELY!

Anyways, while he was watching one of the greatest films of all-time, this of course caught the attention of two small boys, which later begged him to put on the movie for them after they had finished their dinner at the direction of their parents plea. Soon enough we had the entire German family as well as another older woman huddled around in captivating fashion, enjoying the masterpiece of my childhood. I am still amazed that Star Wars continues to span generations of young boys imagination and I cannot help but smile at their enthusiasm for the explosions and presence of light sabers in action.

The beginning of the credits is also the beginning of bedtime for our young viewers, short goodnights are exchanged and soon the galaxy is quiet and free of the Empire at the Finca. Armando and I begin a conversation that lasts into the late hours of the night, sharing in all of the places that we hope to visit. Our level of excitement begins to match that of the two young boys that sat and stared as the Dark Side was abolished by Luke Skywalker and I am convinced that I will never grow up as I continue to experience youthful reminders of my boyhood imagination.

Retiring for the night back to La Cometa, I cannot help but stare up at the sky and take in all of the stars shining down upon me. In the absence of city lights, the night sky presents all of the beauty that sadly becomes forgotten in a sea of glowing structures. Sitting alone, I turn off the small porch light and am now in complete darkness. Slowly my eyes adjust to the new contrast and within a matter of seconds more glimmering lights appear flickering above me. I sit in awe of this gorgeous view and take in the moment in solace. Turning my head to the right, still looking upward, a new set of small flickers catch my eye, lightning bugs. A great big smile is evident across my face through the pitch black darkness and I am quickly brought back to my childhood. Minutes pass and I am unconcerned with finding my bed, but want to cherish this night for just a few minutes longer. My thoughts continue to rest upon a variety of topics, finally settling upon one subject, one person, and the only words that come to mind, shmurnt murnt.

They've done studies, you know. 60% of the time, it works every time. – Brian Fantana

If you don't know where this quote originated from, I highly doubt that you and I would be able to coexist for more than a few hours without a random trident being flung into you while on horseback, so let's get it together and always remember rule number 76: No excuses, play like a champion.

So I figured that some of my previous blogs have not always conveyed the sense of humor that my friends know and love me for, or at least pretend to know me in private, while in public that may be a different story, but deep down they know that I always bring up the awesomeness level about 18%. Yes not a full 20% and no less than 15% but an even keel of 18%. What can I say, I'm that impressive. As you have noticed, my demeanor and relaxed attitude is beginning to show itself more and more each day as I continue to count down the days to departure, 26 days from today to be exact. Yesterday I received word back for my first volunteering job, and, drum roll purrr-rease, it will be in Guatemala at the Finca Ixobel for at least 6 weeks. This will be a great opportunity to explore the surrounding area, make some new friends, and the best part, I will get a private room and three meals a day, which I've read on the Thorn Tree Forum has excellent food since the bread is made fresh at the onsite bakery. I am also hopeful to improve my Spanish beyond the current status of my three lessons a week with my very patient instructor, Alex Lewin, más despacio, por favor. She's been muy bueno. I hope to make her proud by becoming fluent at some point in my travels through Central and South America. I keep thinking how much fun it will be to show up to places in Africa, handing over my U.S. passport, speaking Spanish, with the appearance of being Korean, I am sure they will have no idea what to do with me. It reminds me of when I was in Paris riding the subway and I saw this black guy (by the way I can say this since one of my best friends, who is black, has officially handed over his black card to me telling me, "I am more black than he is," thanks Schlim) well back to the story, this black guy was thugged out on the train in Paris and his mobile rang and it was probably the softest voice I've ever heard answering, "Oh bonjour mon cher ami ce qu'est une belle journée pour vous de me téléphoner." I think I sat there staring with my mouth open for a solid five minutes. Appearances are never what you expect them to be I suppose, and with that I am out like a fat kid in dodgeball.

About the Author

My name is Troy and I gave up a promising 12-year career to travel the world! Now after more than 4-years of continuous global travel, I've lived an incredible life and my goal is to inspire others to achieve their dreams!